


Beyond the Ages

by ofhousepavus



Series: Raise Thy Shield of Faith [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Realities, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofhousepavus/pseuds/ofhousepavus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You think that maybe this is it.</i><br/><i>There is blood on your hands, on your face. It stains your teeth, half-blinds you with red. Your sword is loose in your hand. Numb fingers curl desperately around the grip of your shield, knuckles threatening to cut through skin. Fires burn, high and scattered, and yet the grey stone beneath your cheek is cold as ice.</i><br/><i>Somewhere above you, Corypheus laughs and laughs and laughs.</i><br/><i>‘Amatus,’ Dorian chokes out beside you. You reach for his hand.</i><br/><i>This is it, you think. This is it.</i><br/> <br/>The story of a constant love that defies timelines, that goes beyond wheeling galaxies that stretch from one reality to the next. They may not recognise each other, but when their eyes meet, the red string of fate pulls taut. And they <i>know</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Ages

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, Maker. I know this has probably already been done to death, but I have an essay to write and I don't want to write it. This is my first DA fic, so please forgive me and I'd also love to hear your thoughts about it. [Send me prompts/ideas!!](http://p-atroklos.tumblr.com/ask)

I.

You think that maybe this is it.

There is blood on your hands, on your face. It stains your teeth, half-blinds you with red. Your sword is loose in your hand. Numb fingers curl desperately around the grip of your shield, knuckles threatening to cut through skin. Fires burn, high and scattered, and yet the grey stone beneath your cheek is cold as ice.  
Somewhere above you, Corypheus laughs and laughs and laughs.

‘Amatus,’ Dorian chokes out beside you. You reach for his hand.

This is it, you think. This is it.

II.

The first time you meet him, you don’t recognise him at all.

Standing tall amidst the bookshelves, dressed neatly in a sweater and collared-shirt, long legs in uncomfortably attractive slacks – you were so startled you couldn’t bring yourself to ask who the hell he was.

‘Dorian Pavus,’ he says cheerfully when he catches you staring. You feel your face heat up, mostly from embarrassment. ‘I’m the new librarian.’

‘Right,’ you manage to reply and hand him the stack of textbooks you were supposed to return on behalf of your students. ‘Trevelyan. I’m –’

‘Oh, _you’re_ Trevelyan, are you?’ Dorian snaps his fingers. ‘I was beginning to wonder. They said I’d be seeing you in here quite a bit.’

You don’t bother asking him to clarify who ‘they’ are. It isn’t too surprising your fellow teachers have already warned the man about your preference of the student library over the teacher staffroom. No one takes it personally, and you make it a point not to isolate yourself from the rest of your colleagues.

Dorian looks you up and down. ‘To be honest, I was sort of expecting an unwashed recluse.’

‘Just how badly were they talking about me?’

‘They only said nice things, I promise. But who spends all their time in a library when they could be…rubbing elbows or whatever it is social people do?’

‘You’re not exactly an unwashed recluse yourself.’

‘True. I may be a librarian, but I love hygiene too much for that sort of lifestyle.’

So you can see, though you keep that thought to yourself.

‘I hope you don’t mind me being here,’ you say. The strap of your bag is digging into your shoulder but you don’t set it down yet. Dorian has disappeared behind a bookshelf, but peeks out at the sound of your voice. When he smiles, you swear you feel your heart stutter.

‘No,’ he gestures grandly to the empty tables usually reserved for the kids. ‘Go ahead. There isn’t another class booked for another hour. I like the quiet but sometimes it gets _too_ quiet.’

  
‘I know what you mean.’ How many days had you spent alone in that room, counting down the minutes until your next class or until students began to trickle in, while the old librarian shuffled about in silence? The world always felt a little surreal in those moments, like you were waiting for something other than the day’s end.

You slip into your seat, unloading your items onto the desk. The surface is scratched with pencil marks and graffiti: declarations of love in permanent marker, indecent sketches, and notches from the occasional klutz knocking against its edges. You’re pretending to look busy except you can’t stop trying to catch a glimpse of the dark man with lovely eyes. He has his back turned to you again and you find yourself wishing he’d turn around.

Dorian’s voice gets further away and closer by turns. You can hear the scuff of his shoes against the carpet, the muted thud of a book snapping shut. He makes conversation feels so easy.

‘But then when the kids come in, all you want them to do is shut up. Or not stand on the chairs. Or not make out against the shelves, or – oh, I’m not distracting you from your work, am I?’

‘Not at all.’ You wouldn’t mind if you listened to him talk for the rest of the day.

Dorian’s lips quirk up at the corners, eyes crinkling. ‘I don’t distract you at all? Not even a little bit?’

‘Maybe just a little bit.’ God, you adore him already.

‘I thought so. Can’t be helped. I’m devastatingly handsome, I know.’

You grin at that, and Dorian fumbles with the book in his hand. He catches it so smoothly, and plays it off so well, you pretend that you don’t notice. Then Dorian looks up at you and he laughs, clear as bells.

 

III.

Dorian Pavus is fifteen years old and his palms are sweating.

You know because you can feel them, fingers squeezing your biceps tight, digging crescent moons into your skin. His heart is hammering away in his chest, and it beats in time with yours. It’s a miracle that no one outside of the locker you’re both crammed into can hear the drumbeat against your ribs. Your uniforms are almost stifling.

‘This is all your fault,’ Dorian hisses and you feel the heat of his breath on your neck. ‘We should’ve hid in the janitor’s closet.’

‘That’s the first place everyone looks,’ you reply curtly. ‘Besides, you didn’t have to jump into this locker with me.’

Dorian sniffs. ‘We’re too old for this. I can’t believe we got roped into this stupid game.’

‘It did seem like a good idea at the time.’

‘No, it didn’t.’

‘I loved hide-and-seek as a kid.’

‘You’re still one, obviously.’

‘So are you.’

Dorian huffs indignantly and steps on your toes, but he still doesn’t leave. He shifts against you, and you pretend not to notice how well you fit together, like two pieces of the same puzzle. One of his legs has somehow managed to get between yours and you pray to God or whoever it is up there that you don’t lose it, not in here. Even in the shadows, you can see the contours of his face, his lips full with the promise of sensuality. Your throat feels dry looking at him. Your skin feels clammy.

  
For all his posturing, Dorian gasps when the shadow of a fellow student slips through the three narrow slats on the locker door. You start to say something, but he hushes you. You shut your mouth compliantly, and grin. A voice trickles through; a hint of laughter, wondering where Trevelyan and Pavus have gone. Then they move on and it’s just you and him.

Dorian presses closer and sighs into your ear, relieved.

You shut your eyes and breathe him in.

IV.

An alarm wakes you – high and shrill, and urgent. It blares over the speakers and has you falling out of bed in an instant, the last vestiges of your dream making it hard to open your eyes properly. Above you, you hear your bunkmate cursing.

A blanket falls in front of you. Dorian follows after it, almost naked. His underwear clings low on his hips, and when he stretches, you can see the lean muscles in his back shift under his tan skin. If it weren't for the emergency call, you’d probably take time to stare.

_‘All teams to the docks. I repeat, all teams to the docks. There has been a breach -’_

‘Good Lord, there’s always a breach.’ Dorian says as he tugs on his flight-suit. He struggles every time, just as you do. The outfit is tight, but it’s also heavy, and there are a multitude of buckles and zippers to manoeuvre through before you can even get your boots on. And they’re a problem all on their own.

You toss Dorian his helmet and he catches it with a grimace. ‘What do you think got through this time?’

‘One of the bigger demons. Probably.’ You shrug. ‘Could be worse. Maybe.’

‘Space demons.’ Dorian says disbelievingly. He says it every time you go out on a mission and you laugh. ‘Can you believe this? Yes, it was inevitable the human race fuck itself over but I didn’t think we were going to do it by tearing space asunder.’

‘I don’t know why we’re still surprised.’

You both hurry down to the docks in your flight-suits, boots thudding against the polished metal floor. A few other pilots join you in your rush, each talking and speculating in conversations similar to the one you and Dorian had minutes ago. The emergency alarm continues its red-orange flashing and monotone announcement that echoes through the hallways.

You move swiftly to towards the Green Sect., huge metal doors sliding open as it senses your squadron’s arrival. Glowing green numbers etched into its surface mark your destination. A line of starship fighters greets you as you enter and you pick your pace up to a jog, passing a rather nice fighter with the name _Bianca_ painted in neat cursive on its sleek body. Dorian’s only a few steps behind you – the _Herald_ and the _Redeemer_ are side-by-side as always.

Just a moment before Dorian clambers into his starship, he grips your hand tight. You still. You can’t feel the warmth on his palms or the callous of his fingertips through the gauntlets. Just the reassuring pressure. Your eyes flick up to meet his, and Dorian presses your wrist against his lips. Brief, but it’s enough to make your blood roar in your ears.

‘Dorian?’ You start, but he’s already moving away. He tosses you a smirk over his shoulder.

‘Try not to die. I would notice you were gone.’

V.

When Dorian first meets you, he knows that he’s fucked up.

He had promised himself – _promised_ – that he would never fall in love with a married man. He thought he’d done well by that promise, too. You were just a nice guy who happened to eat lunch with him when you noticed he was sitting alone. Dorian would have been happy only being your friend.

Oh, who was he kidding? He knew he was in trouble the moment you smiled at him and he saw the wedding ring around your finger, gold band glinting in the sun. And still, Dorian said yes when you asked whether the seat beside him was free.

Dorian thought he knew better than to let himself be so foolish.

But here you are, two years later, and here he is, his heart in his throat, while the room cheers you both on. Your wife grins, amused, unbothered by the scene before her. Your daughter laughs delightedly from her hip and claps her hands. It’s just a joke to them all, he knows. It might just be a joke to you too.

You look up at the mistletoe hanging over your heads and you are nervous. You both are, you think. For once, Dorian’s silver tongue is failing him.

He doesn’t know how to get out of this.

He doesn’t really want to get out of this.

‘I knew it was a bad idea for us to get the drinks at the same time,’ he manages.

You rub the back of your neck sheepishly, and when you smile at Dorian, it’s apologetic. ‘I – yeah. I forgot I put the mistletoe up there.’

‘This is your house!’

‘I know, I know –’

He has to keep talking. If it had been any other man, he might have even put on a show. But this is you, this is Trevelyan, this is the man who always leaves his knees a little weaker, his blood a little hotter, his heart a little bigger. If Dorian lets himself have this, every day after will be like swallowing broken glass.

‘Ridiculous.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So you should be. You’re not my type at all.’

You laugh a little at that. ‘Come on, it’ll be quick. They’re waiting.’

‘You know, if you fall in love with me after, I’m not taking any responsi–’

_‘Dorian.’_

And just like you do in all his dreams, you take his face into your hands and kiss him sweetly on the lips.

For a moment, everything reels. Everything goes mute though he’s dimly aware that the rest of the room is hollering. His eyes flutter closed – just a moment, only a moment – and you feel his moustache tickling your upper lip.

Dorian’s lips aren’t chapped like yours. They’re warm and sweet with the hot apple cider your wife insisted he tried because it was her family’s specialty. Your eyes don’t close; this is the only chance you’ll get to see the dusky gold of Dorian’s eyelids, the colour of dawn, the length of his lashes against his cheek, the furrow of his brow as he sighs so quietly you almost miss it.

You’re happy with your life, but sometimes you wonder.

Then Dorian reciprocates and the kiss is daggers and wine in the pit of his stomach all at once. Something in his chest cracks, something collapses, and he wonders if he kisses you long enough, whether you’ll be able to taste his desperation.

When you both finally pull away, you start to say something – you’re not sure what – but Dorian steps back, almost bumping into the wall behind him.

‘I need a drink,’ he says. You think you hear a shard of hurt in there, dug deep into his throat.

VI.

He’s only a stranger in the rain - a brief brush of damp shoulders. You’ve forgotten your umbrella and he’s struggling to fix his. It’s been turned inside-out in the harsh winds, and he curses when his finger catches on one of the sharp metal pieces.

Neither of you are really looking where you’re going.

You misstep first, trying to get around a puddle. Your socks are soaked through already, and you’re not eager to get frostbite. He tries to go the same way at the same time.

Your shoulders connect and you reel slightly from the impact. The stranger looks up with wide eyes and you’re immediately taken by the colour of them. They’re the kind of eyes you could get lost in forever, if you had the time. His black hair, which you can guess is usually perfectly coifed, is plastered to his forehead.

The stranger’s moustache quirks when he smiles at you. You stammer out an apology. His hand lingers on your arm when he reaches out to steady you, voice bright and rich, despite the dour weather.

‘Alright?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

Then he’s gone much too fast, and a quick glance at your watch tells you you’re going to be late for your train if you don’t get moving.

VII.

You learn the morning after that Dorian Pavus doesn’t know how to cook.

It’s endearing, even though your curtains now smell like burnt toast.

‘Good morning,’ he says cheerfully when you finally emerge from your bedroom, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You smirk a little when you see him: his hair is scruffy, like he’s only bothered to run a hand through it. He’s also wearing your shirt from the night before, but though you’re broader around the shoulders, Dorian’s still half a head taller. The hem of the shirt rides up his marked thighs when he turns to pour you a cup of coffee. No underwear, you notice.

‘What’d you set on fire this time?’ You ask and wander over to the breakfast counter which – lo and behold – actually has breakfast set out on it. Of the fast-food variety. You suppose there are things even Dorian isn’t good at.

Dorian turns to you and manages to look affronted though he knows full well you can see the singed tea-towel hanging over the edge of the sink. ‘Absolutely nothing! But if I have, never let it be said I don’t pay my debts.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ you say and step up behind him. Your arms wound around his waist easily and bury your face into his back. Dorian huffs, but he leans back into your embrace. The heat of his body seeps through the thin fabric, warming your bare chest. ‘Thank you.’ You pause, then add: ‘This is nice.’

‘Did you think I was just going to leave without saying anything?’ Dorian chides. ‘Well, I thought about it, but you looked adorable drooling on your pillow so I changed my mind.’

‘I don’t drool on my pillow. Do I?’

‘You do, and it’s terrible. Now, let me go. Breakfast is going to get cold.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ you say again. When Dorian finally twists around in your hold, you lean up and kiss him hard against the mouth.

VIII.

‘Good, you’re finally here.’

You cock your head to the side, surprised, but mostly curious. A Tevinter mage stands before you – a much handsomer vision than the poisonous snakes your imagination has built them up to be. He’s almost larger than life, the way he holds himself. Brighter than the sun, than the mark that splits your skin. There’s something so enchanting about him, you can’t be sure it’s not magic.

Cassandra scoffs suspicions from behind. If _Dorian of House Pavus, Most Recently of Minrathous_ cares, he doesn't show it. He speaks with an ease and confidence that you envy. Son of a noble you might be, but ceremonies were never your responsibility. At least, not in the same way they were your brothers’.

And Maker, he’s speaking again. You don’t even realise, but you’re hanging onto his every word with an intensity you never realised you were capable of. You try to memorise the way he pronounces things, the smooth slide of his voice. You try to scratch into your mind the way he stands and the sway of his hips when he walks away, in case you never see him again.

Dorian, you think and you’re eager to taste the name on your tongue. Dorian, Dorian, Dorian.

It’s not quite love at first sight, but it’s something like it.

IX.

This is it, you think, but it isn’t.

Not yet.

Not while Dorian squeezes your fingers and his eyes are bright with tears he won’t let himself shed.

Not while there’s fire in your veins, or in his.

You drag your arms under you, push your torso up though your ribs protest and the wound in your side burns. Somewhere, you can hear the rest of your party moaning in pain. You hear the scrape of armour against concrete. A huff of breath. Dorian gives a cry, whether it’s one of encouragement or distress, you can’t tell. He struggles to his feet with you, balancing his weight on his staff.

There’s a streak of ash on his face, a burn mark on his shoulder. His lip is split open and you want to kiss him, but the battle is far from over. Cassandra and the Iron Bull are already shaking the dizziness of Corypheus’ last hit off, eyes blazing and mouths grim. Solas nods at you over a pile of debris and points to a collapsing staircase. _Up there._

Dorian inhales. You turn to look at him and you are moved, down to your very core, by how much you care for him. There is fear stamped all over his features, but there is also pride and a fierce determination.

Memories are what keep you standing, keep your hands around your shield and sword. You remember the way the candlelight makes Dorian’s skin glow bronze under your fingers. You remember the way he breathes your name when your teeth scrape against the juncture between his neck and collarbone. You remember that he wants to leave for Tevinter – maybe not now, but eventually – and you remember telling him that you would wait for him forever if you had to, even when the news broke something inside of you.

As you ascend the staircase to meet your fate, Dorian reaches for your hand one last time and you know you love this man with everything that you are, with everything fibre of your being.

You know, without a doubt, that you would love him beyond the ages.


End file.
